The Right of the Line

by Christopher Nuttall

  ***

  Richard felt edgy as he strode into the briefing compartment, the stim burning a hole in his pouch. He’d been tempted to take it at once, the moment he’d been woken with the news the battle was about to begin, but he didn’t dare take the risk. The drug was dangerously unpredictable, particularly now. He’d redesigned the command structure - once new pilots had been assigned to him - to limit the risk of him zoning out and losing control, but it was still going to be a problem. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  I’ll report myself as soon as we return to friendly space, he thought. He took the stand, feeling sweat prickle down his back already. The briefing room was supposed to be cool, but it felt like a sauna. And then I’ll probably be dishonourably discharged without them even bothering with a court martial.

  He surveyed the pilots, feeling a pang of guilt that - once again - he didn’t know their names. There had been very little time for greetings, very little time for anything but endless simulations of prospective encounters. He was all too aware the lack of affinity was going to cost them, that some of the pilots were going to prove more dangerous to their fellows than they were to the enemy ... he shook his head. He was probably the only real threat to his subordinates.

  Apart from a few million alien starfighters bearing down on us, he reminded himself. The aliens wanted to kill them. But then, everyone knew the aliens wanted to kill them. It might not be enough. We can do everything right and still get brutally beaten by the bad guys.

  He cleared his throat. “You’ve heard the briefing before,” he said. “You all know what we’re doing. Punch through their lines, clear a space for the marines; cover their shuttles as best as you can. And if you see a chance to take out their battleships and carriers, take it.”

  “We will,” someone said.

  “This time, we need to destroy their line of battle,” Richard warned. “It isn’t enough to cripple them, not now. They have to be destroyed. They must be smashed so we can get the ships past them and into the tramline.”

  He looked from face to face. Some were pale, some were dark, some bore the mark of the Belt while others had grown up planetside ... all very different, yet very human. And they were starfighter pilots. The thing they had in common was more important than the things that kept them apart.

  His voice was steady. “Forget where you come from. Forget whichever country gave you birth. Today, you fight as one. If we win, we will survive.”

  There was a long pause. “Get to your starfighters,” he ordered. A rustle ran through the compartment. “Give the bastards hell.”

  The pilots hurried out. Richard braced himself, then followed them. He’d take the stim as soon as he was in the cockpit, waiting for launch. And then ... he’d do whatever he had to do to win. And then ...

  Worry about that when you get home, he told himself. He’d been tempted to write a note for the captain, explaining what had happened, but he’d eventually decided it was pointless. If he died, no one would know the truth; if he left a note, Monica’s reputation might be dragged down with him. Right now, you have something else to worry about.

  ***

  “They’re not trying to be subtle, sir,” Anisa said. “They’re daring us to bring our ships into engagement range.”

  Stephen nodded. The virus’s fleet was arranged in a formation that might as well have been a mirror of his own. The battleships were at the prow, like a spear readying itself to plunge into his ships; the fleet carriers and the lone command ship were at the rear, protected by an entire swarm of destroyers. There didn’t seem to be any converted freighters with the fleet - he hoped that meant there were no arsenal ships - but it was hard to be sure. The rear units were half-hidden by ECM.

  And they have a definite advantage in battleships, he thought, grimly. Twelve battleships to eight.

  “Retarget the missiles,” he ordered, quietly. “They are to be targeted exclusively on the enemy battleships.”

  He saw Anisa swallow, clearly wanting to say something. The original plan called for the missiles to be targeted more widely, trying to damage or destroy the fleet carriers as well as the battleships. But spreading their fire too widely - and launching all the missiles into what might as well be a dedicated kill zone - was nothing more than throwing the missiles away. If they could weaken or damage the battleships ...

  Who’d want to be an admiral? The thought was funny, in a droll kind of way. Who’d want fleet command when he’d have to make such decisions?

  “Missiles retargeted, sir,” Anisa said. “The updated firing plan has been distributed.”

  “The datanet hasn’t been disrupted, yet,” Stephen said. It was a rule of thumb that someone wouldn’t get the message, particularly once the shit hit the fan, but - for the moment - the communications network was intact. It wasn’t as if they were going to be firing repeated barrages of missiles. “They’ll know where to fire their first and last rounds.”

  He studied his display, thoughtfully. Nothing had changed in the last two hours. One fleet ahead of him, one fleet behind him; the projections, part of him noted absently, had been dead on. He made a mental note to congratulate the analysts on their success, if he lived long enough to write the commendation. It was rare - vanishingly rare - for a tactical projection to bear such a close resemblance to reality.

  Although there aren’t many variables here, he mused, wryly. The whole engagement was entirely predictable from the moment we failed to break contact with the enemy and sneak into cloak. We knew they’d be mustering a force to block us.

  He keyed his terminal, opening a channel to the entire fleet. “All hands, this is Commodore Shields,” he said. “We are about to meet the enemy in battle, one final time. If we win, we will break through his last line and return to safety; if we lose, we will still buy time for our homeworld to assemble new defence lines, to build new ships and produce new weapons that will even the odds. Our deaths, if we die today, will not be in vain.”

  It wasn’t the most comforting thing he could have said, he knew, but naval crewmen knew the score. There was no point in trying to conceal the simple fact that most of them were going to die if the plan failed. They knew what they were facing. And they would have known if he’d tried to give them false hope. They would do their duty. In the end, that was all that mattered.

  “Earth expects that every spacer will do his duty,” he said. Nelson would have approved, he thought. The man had had his flaws, but he’d been a great hero. “And may God be with us.”

  He closed the channel. He’d been tempted to say so many things, from Shakespeare’s famous speech to one of any number of famous parodies, but in the end he’d decided to keep it simple. The crew would understand. And besides - his lip twitched - they had too much to do to listen to him for more than a few minutes. They were about to become very busy indeed.

  The display bleeped. The range had closed. It was time.

  “Launch starfighters,” he ordered. “Missile pods ... commence firing!”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “The fleet is firing missiles,” the dispatcher said. “Try to clear the way for them.”

  Richard nodded. His head was buzzing. The stim had been too powerful ... he pushed the growing pain aside, forcing himself to look at the display. The enemy starfighters were forming up into attack formations, readying themselves to fall on the human starships like wolves on sheep. They hadn’t responded to the human missiles yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time.

  “Punch through the enemy fighters,” he ordered, as calmly as he could. The pain in his head grew stronger. He felt as if an elephant was tap-dancing on his skull. “And take out the battleships!”

  He gritted his teeth as the starfighter lunged forward, flashes of plasma fire already lashing through space towards constantly-shifting targets. The virus’s starfighters were coming forward too, readying themselves for a brief engagement before racing onwards to fall upon the human ships. Richard watched the C
SP forming up behind him, ready to scatter the enemy fighters when they arrived. The CSP would keep the aliens off the motherships long enough for the attack squadrons to expend their missiles and return for rearming.

  The alien starfighters opened fire. Richard jinked from side to side, feeling his starfighter threatening to spin out of control as the autofire took pot-shots at every alien starfighter that came into its sights. A handful exploded, picked off before they could return fire; others flashed past, ignoring the human craft in favour of bigger targets. Richard had to fight the impulse to reverse course and chase the bastards down. They weren’t his targets and he knew it, but he was all too aware of just how much damage they could do. His pilots might complete their mission and return, only to discover their mothership had been blasted out of space. But then, if they failed to complete their mission, their mothership was doomed anyway. He didn’t fancy Invincible’s chances against a battleship’s big guns.

  “Follow me in,” he ordered. “Don’t stop for anything.”

  The alien battleship was growing larger on the display, a monstrous shape studded with missile tubes and point defence weapons. It was already spitting fire in all directions, blast after blast of plasma fire raking through space. Richard saw a pair of human pilots die - for a moment, he wasn’t even sure if they were his pilots - and winced, inwardly. There was no time to mourn. He snapped his targeting sensors onto the alien drive section, cursing the sheer weight of armour the virus had rigged to defend its ships. It was not going to be easy to punch through it to hit the vitals beyond. They’d have to hope the torpedoes struck one of the handful of vulnerable sections.

  Good thing they can’t wrap the entire drive system in armour, Richard thought, with a flicker of amusement. That would make the mission a damn sight harder.

  His lips twitched as he selected his targets, then launched his torpedoes. A flash of plasma fire burned past his craft, so close that only random chance had saved his life. He swore as he hurled his starfighter into a series of evasive manoeuvres, silently relieved he’d already launched his torpedoes. The virus might take him out now - if his luck failed him - but it wouldn’t matter. It would be wiser to focus on the real threat.

  His display updated rapidly as the human missiles came into view, bearing down on their targets. The virus reacted fast, targeting the missiles instead of the torpedoes. Richard nodded, unsurprised; a single shipkiller was far more dangerous to an enemy ship than a whole flight of starfighter torpedoes. He snapped orders, raking the enemy hull with plasma fire as he swept low. The more point defence weapons he took out, the greater the chance of getting a missile or two through the enemy defences. And then ...

  He smiled as four of the missiles detonated, bomb-pumped lasers stabbing deep into the enemy hull. The ship seemed to stagger, great explosions tearing gashes in her armour; he felt his smile grow wider as a gout of brilliant plasma blossomed up, bare meters from his starfighter. He yanked his starfighter up and away from the alien ship, the remainder of his squadron falling into place behind him. A moment later, a final series of explosions ripped the alien battleship apart. Pieces of debris shot past him as he drove his starfighter away from the wreck. The armour was so tough that parts of it had survived the starship’s final moments.

  “Scratch one battleship,” he cheered. Monica would be proud of him. “Regroup on me ...”

  His heart sank as he assessed the survivors. He’d lost seven pilots from his squadron, men and women he barely knew. The other squadrons under his command weren’t in any better shape. All of the squadrons looked to have taken heavy losses. He cursed under his breath as the command and control network updated, hastily reassigning pilots to active squadrons and deactivating squadrons that could no longer be sustained. A few squadron leaders were going to be pissed at their effective demotion, he was sure. The debriefing was going to be interesting.

  Worry about that later, he told himself. Right now, you have more important concerns.

  The fleets were closing rapidly, the battleships already exchanging long-range fire. The alien fleet had taken a battering, he noted, but it had given as good as it got. One human battleship was gone, another was struggling to hold position; it looked as if two carriers had been badly damaged. The virus might regret targeting the carriers, he thought, as he prepared himself to support the battleships. The battleships were the real threat. But then, in the long-term ...

  He shrugged. Right now, there was no long term. And if they didn’t win the battle, there wouldn’t ever be.

  ***

  “The missiles did well, sir,” Anisa said. “We took out two battleships and damaged three more.”

  Stephen nodded, coldly. He’d been right. The virus didn’t have many missiles to throw at the human ships. But it was starting to look as though it didn’t matter. He’d only had enough missiles for one giant salvo, and it hadn’t been enough to shatter the alien fleet. Too many expensive missiles had been picked off, dying uselessly halfway from their motherships to their targets. He wondered, grimly, if he was looking at the future of interstellar war. Hundreds of ships firing thousands of missiles from ever-increasing range, most salvos evaporating uselessly somewhere between the two sides. It was going to be expensive ... and pointless. The handful of penetration aids they’d worked into the missile barrage hadn’t proved decisive.

  We’re going to have to find a way to cut costs, he thought. A dull rumble ran through the ship as a pair of alien torpedoes struck home. And mass-produce missiles without breaking the bank.

  “Order the battleships to concentrate their fire on their opposite numbers,” he said. “And divert the reserve squadrons to swarm the unengaged enemy battleships.”

  He gritted his teeth. It wasn’t conventional, but conventional tactics were not going to carry the day. Doctrine called for the starfighters to support the battleships by hampering enemy ships as much as possible; there were just too many enemy ships for the tactic to prove effective. He needed to kill the enemy battleships quickly, before they could punch through his battleships and kill his carriers. The range was still closing, even though he’d reduced speed. It wouldn’t be long before he was sandwiched between two fleets and crushed to a pulp.

  And there’s no way we can break off now, even if we wanted to, he thought. If we tried, it would expose us to the fire of both fleets.

  He leaned forward, watching grimly as the battleships exchanged fire. The aliens were altering course, trying to bring their rear turrets to bear; his ships couldn’t, not without reducing speed and prolonging the engagement. Giant flashes of plasma fire passed between the two fleets, followed by missiles and mass driver projectiles. The latter didn’t stand a chance - there was no way they could score even a single hit - but it kept the enemy point defence occupied. He muttered an order, knowing it was unnecessary. His battleships knew to target the enemy big guns first.

  We built our battleships to be tough, he reminded himself. Invincible was tough, but she wouldn’t last more than a few minutes in the maelstrom he’d unleashed. We designed them to soak up a great deal of fire and keep moving. And so did they.

  The range continued to close. He watched, knowing that he was no longer in control, as the battleships tore into each other. An alien battleship staggered out of line, a human battleship pounding her ruthlessly; Stephen felt a pang of sympathy for the crew, even though he knew they were nothing more than host-bodies. The alien starship disintegrated in a tearing explosion, a moment before a human battleship fell out of formation. Stephen hoped - prayed - her engineers would be able to get her drive nodes back online before it was too late. If the plan worked - if they punched through the alien fleet - they wouldn’t have time to pick up survivors before they resumed running. They couldn’t risk winning one battle, only to lose the next.

  “Shit,” Anisa said, quietly. “Sir, Putin is gone.”

  It was hardly the most professional of reports, but Stephen found it hard to blame her. A battleship had been blown
out of space, lost with all hands ... it didn’t look as if there were any lifepods. He hoped that some of the crew had managed to get off the ship ... if they did, there might be a chance to pick them up before it was too late. He could detail a starfighter to tow the lifepods out of the engagement zone ...

  “I can’t see any lifepod beacons,” Anisa said. “Sir ...”

  They’re gone, Stephen thought. There might be no lifepods, no survivors. Or the survivors might be worried about being targeted - or simply captured by the virus - if they turned on their beacons. And if they don’t turn on their beacons, we won’t know they’re alive either. We won’t be able to pick them up.

  Another shudder ran through the ship. “Multiple torpedo hits, port flight deck,” Anisa reported. “They’re punching missiles into our blind spot.”

  Reconcentrate the CSP to cover the gap, Stephen thought.

  He caught himself before he could start barking orders. No, that was Newcomb’s job, damn it. Stephen glanced at the display. Newcomb was already issuing orders, diverting the CSP to cover the damaged section. The repair crews had done what they could, but the flight deck was completely beyond repair. Invincible was going to need months in a shipyard before she could fly and fight again, if she ever got home. Another explosion ran through the ship. A torpedo had detonated inside the hull. He silently blessed the designers as the display updated. The internal armour had absorbed most of the blast.